


An Angel's Job

by vulcanarmr



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22284400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulcanarmr/pseuds/vulcanarmr
Summary: Crowley slept through the entire 19th century. Except 1832, when he got up to go to the bathroom. Coincidentally, that's the same year Les Amis were supposed to die defending the barricade. I'm bad at summaries, but here's this thing where Crowley is at the barricade with the amis...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 53





	An Angel's Job

**Author's Note:**

> i finally gathered the courage to get an account on here and post this thing. any kudos and comments are appreciated!

Crowley sat on a wooden barrel, watching as some of the rebel students dragged off the man who had been called out as a police inspector by a young boy. The boy looked no older than ten, yet he seemed to have no fear of anything at all. Crowley sighed, standing up to stretch his numb legs. He had slipped behind the barricade earlier, and set himself to watching. Downstairs thought he had been the one to start this entire mess, but really, he had been asleep until only a few days ago, when he woke up to go to the bathroom. He had thought he might as well be present when one of the barricades fell while he was awake.. Proof that he was the one that started it, and all that.

It had been a mistake.

Most of the students seemed no older than thirty. There was the boy, who was just a child. It was likely, almost certain, that they were all going to die. And Crowley felt, Satan preserve him, guilty. Demons weren’t supposed to feel guilty. Demons weren’t supposed to go around wanting to help people. That was an angel’s job. And Hell forbid Crowley do an angel’s job.

He looked at the child again, his snake-like eyes unblinking behind dark glasses. The boy looked back and flashed a rather eerie smile. Crowley hissed at him, and the boy laughed. Crowley’s stomach turned. He didn’t like the feeling. Humans were the ones whose stomachs turned and twisted because of emotions. That kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen to Demons, and he wondered if he’d been up here for too long. Humanity was growing on him, he realised. He winced at the thought.

There was the noise of distant footsteps approaching. Crowley saw as the students grabbed their rifles and positioned themselves directly behind the barricade. The windows of the surrounding buildings closed tightly, leaving no light but that of a few torches. The footsteps, which Crowley assumed belonged to the National Guard, grew louder. He heard someone shouting orders, followed by a question directed at the barricade. “Who’s there?” the voice yelled, cutting through the air towards the students. There was a pause, before the leader of the students, a blond boy wearing red, yelled back.

“French Revolution!” the boy in red replied. Crowley gave a quiet and amused scoff at the response, standing back from the barricade. There was another pause, before the voice from the other side spoke again, loud and clear.

“Fire!”

The order was followed by the sound of rifles going off. Some of the students backed away, covering their heads. They were obviously startled. The leader in red seemed unfazed, shooting back. The students who had backed away recuperated, gripping their rifles and shooting at the guardsmen who had began to climb the barricade. One of the students, a boy who had earlier been dressed in clothes far too elegant and posh for a place like this, caught Crowley’s eye, because he had grabbed one of the gunpowder barrels and began to make his way up the barricade. The other students noticed not long after, and yelled at him to get down. The posh boy grabbed a torch, making it to the top of the barricade. One of the other students moved beside him, pulling a rifle that had been pointed at the posh boy away. The rifle went off, shooting into the student’s chest. Crowley saw the student crumple to the ground, and he snapped his fingers. The world around him froze. He made his way over to the fallen student. A blood had already begun to spread across the student’s shirt. Crowley ran his tongue over his teeth. This student was going to die.

“Unless you do something, of course,” he mumbled to anyone who was listening, which at that moment, was only himself, and possibly God. He turned away from the student. “Which you won’t, because that would be good, and doing good is bad.” He glanced back at the student, turning his head dramatically. He made an unintelligible gibberish-like sound. “Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done it. Noah’s ark. Saved a bunch of kidsssss.” He cursed himself for hissing. “Except thossssse were kids, little kids! These are…” He looked at the faces of the other students. They were young. Far too young. He made a strange noise, somewhere between a hiss and a mumble. “These are older kids.” He shoved his glasses upwards and pinched the bridge of his nose. He then shifted his gaze up to the stars, staring at them for a moment. His stomach was still doing the twisting and turning. Guilt, guilt, guilt, guilt, guilt-

“Shit,” he groaned to himself. He repositioned the glasses on his nose, before walking over to the student who had been shot and snapping his fingers. The world unfroze, and he heard the student who had grabbed the barrel speak.

“Fall back!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. Crowley ran a hand over the blood stain on the injured student’s shirt, before putting a hand on the injury. The posh boy on the barricade yelled again. “Fall back or I blow the barricade!”  
Crowley’s eyes shot up to look at the boy. The stupid, stupid boy.

“I’ll do it! I will, and I’ll take myself with it!” the posh boy continued. Crowley glared at him. There was a moment of deathly silence, before Crowley heard the National Guard backing off. The boy in red carefully took the torch from the posh boy’s hand, staring at him with wide eyes. The posh boy made his way down the barricade, stopping next to the injured student and Crowley. He looked at the student’s face, a flash of recognition and confusion morphing his features. “Éponine?” he said, his eyebrows knitting together. The student, Éponine, looked up.

“Marius!” Éponine said. The posh boy, Marius, smiled slightly. But his smile soon faded.

“Éponine!” he exclaimed when his eyes landed on the blood. Crowley shook his head, standing up.

“Wha-yeah, no, yeah, right, don’t worry about that, I’m...I’m a doctor,” he said in rather decent French, holding his blood covered hands in front of him. Marius looked at him, before kneeling down next to the student called Éponine.

“How...the bleeding’s stopped, how can the bleeding have stopped, she’s only just been shot?” the posh boy said. Crowley made a noise, realising everyone was looking at him.

“Well, I guess you could say I’m a miracle worker,” he said, slightly distracted. He heard Éponine and Marius start to talk something about a letter and someone called Cossette, but he wasn’t paying much attention. He looked around at the faces of the students. “Right, I should...go,” he mumbled to himself. But one of the students, a boy with dark curls, a slightly wild look in his eye, and a green waistcoat, walked up to him.

“A doctor, you say? Well, we’ll be needing one of those, won’t we?” he said, looking at the other students, before laughing at himself. Crowley noticed how the boy’s gaze fell on the boy in red as he laughed. He then noticed a bottle in his hand. “Have some wine, mon ami,” the boy in green offered. Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Well, I suppose, since you asked…” he sighed. The boy in green smiled wide, passing Crowley the bottle. Crowley sighed, taking it reluctantly. He took a small sip, before practically shoving it back to the boy and making his way over to the barrel where he had been sitting before this all began. He knew he should probably leave, but he couldn’t get himself to. Everytime he thought of going, his stomach started with the twisting and turning again. He hated himself for it. Surely, saving one person should be enough to stop him from feeling guilty? 

Evidently not.

~~~

Crowley had always loved sleep. It was a way to distract oneself from the problems of the real world. It was enjoyable. Which is why Crowley was pissed off when he felt someone shaking him awake. He let out a groan as he opened his eyes to see the boy in red standing before him, a hand on his shoulder. “Monsieur,” he said. Crowley hissed.

“Ngk, what?” he asked in an annoyed voice. The boy in red pulled back his hand, stepping back. The other students gathered around, along with a man in his sixties who must have arrived while Crowley was sleeping.

“We’re the only ones left,” the boy in red said at last. “The others are too afraid.” There were a few murmurs from among the students. The boy in red continued. “If there is anyone who wishes to go now, then go. We should not waste lives.”

There was a moment of silence. Crowley wished he could leave right then, but his legs wouldn’t obey him, and the guilt inside of him became stronger. He found himself hoping that the students would leave, save themselves, and he cursed himself for it.

“No,” a small voice said. Crowley looked to find the source. He saw the child who had pointed out the police officer standing behind some of the students. “We’ve got to keep fighting! Vive la Revolution! ”

Some of the other students nodded and repeated. “Vive la Revolution!” Crowley stood up, his face solemn, watching the students prepare their weapons and talk amongst themselves. The leader in red walked up to one of the students.

“Feuilly, how do we stand?” he asked. The one called Feuilly shook his head.

“We have enough guns, but we’re short on ammunition,” he replied. Crowley raised an eyebrow. The posh boy called Marius walked up to them.

“I will go to the street, there are many bodies. There’s sure to be ammunition there,” he said, and Crowley’s stomach twisted yet again at the words. The boy in red shook his head.

“No, you will not go, it’s too much of a risk,” he said. The older man stood behind Marius.

“I am old, I have nothing to fear,” he said, “I will go.”

“You’re not quick enough!” the little boy said out of nowhere, before beginning to climb the barricade. The students yelled after him, begging him to return. Crowley watched, forcing himself not to move. He was going to stand by and do nothing. He was a demon, he wasn’t good or kind or helpful. He was vile. He was evil. He was a demon, he was a demon, he was a demon…

The first shot rang out, and Crowley had to clench his jaw in order not to flinch. He heard one of the students yell at the others, saying the child was alright, the guard had missed. Then there was another. A painful yelp came from the other side of the barricade, and Crowley’s muscles tensed. He bit his tongue, trying to stay still. He heard the students yelling.

“Gavroche, come back!”

“Come back before you get yourself killed!”

The child wasn’t dead yet. Crowley sighed, surrendering to the guilt that was gnawing away at him, and he made his way over the barricade. Once he was over, he made his way over to the little boy. He had been shot, but not fatally. He was going to be alright. Crowley waved a hand, and a chunk of wood from the barricade fell directly in front of him and the child, blocking most of the gunshots. He grabbed the boy into his arms and dragged him back over the edge of the barricade. He then grabbed the child by the shoulders and shook him. “Don’t...do that,” he hissed, before pressing a hand to the boy’s shoulder where he had been hit. The bleeding stopped almost instantly, and Crowley let him go and stepped back. The little boy was crowded by students, all asking if he was alright, asking what he was thinking, all that. The only one who stayed behind was the leader in red. He looked at Crowley, mouthing a small ‘thank you’, before looking away. Crowley looked down. Someone was grateful. Fantastic. If Downstairs heard about this, there would be trouble. Big trouble.

Crowley’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a voice from the other side of the barricade. “You at the barricade, you have no chance! Don’t throw your lives away!” the voice yelled. Crowley once again hoped that the students would listen, that they would leave, that they would live. The boy in red addressed the students.

“Let us die facing our foes!” he yelled, and the students yelled back. The boy in green looked at the boy in red, and the boy in red didn’t look back. He didn’t notice. The boy in green looked away, his features sad. They all grabbed their rifles, preparing to die. Crowley could have stepped away unseen at this point. He wanted to. But he didn’t. They were so young. They had lives ahead of them, albeit short ones. They were going to live today.

“Cannons!” the voice from the National Guard rang out. Crowley glanced over the barricade, seeing the guardsmen preparing canons. With a snap of his fingers, he removed the projectiles from the cannons. He made his way over to the left side of the barricade, hearing the cannon shots ring out. He grinned at the shocked faces of the students when, instead of cannonballs, snowflakes began to drift down onto them. Even the leader in red looked slightly fazed, but he fired his rifle anyway. The other students did so as well. The next round of cannons fired, and again, nothing but snow fell. Crowley could have stopped there. Just kept turning the National Guard’s ammunition into snow. But if he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. He always did rather have a flare for the dramatic. And if he was going to get in trouble with Hell for doing this, then Satan preserve him, he was going to do it right.

Crowley’s wings manifested and spread, his feet lifted from the ground, and he rose to the top of the barricade. He pushed the students back. He then snapped his fingers, and the barricade burned with blue fire around him, casting strange shadows all around. Yells and screams of surprise arose from the National Guard, and some from the students, as well. Crowley grinned, his teeth shining in the light of the fire. “Hi,” he said simply, his voice echoing loudly. The guardsmen began to run, fleeing for their lives. Crowley started to make his way towards the guardsmen, his feet still not touching the ground. They all ran, some of them dropping their weapons, some of them grabbing all that they could. But they all ran. When they had gone, Crowley allowed his feet to drop to the ground. His wings folded, before disappearing. He looked out at the now empty street, saying nothing. He heard quiet footsteps behind him, and he saw the boy in red walk up to stand next to him.

“You’re an angel,” he said simply. Crowley made a small choking noise.

“Something like that,” he answered, glancing at the boy. The boy nodded, his expression one of shock. There was more silence. Crowley finally spoke. “What’s your name?”

The boy in red blinked. “Enjolras.”

Crowley nodded. “Huh. Well, Enjolras, I’d rather you didn’t speak of this to anyone.”

Enjolras nodded. “Of course, anything.” A pause. “Monsieur...have you come to save France?”

Crowley made another choking noise. “I don’t know. And don’t call me Monsieur.”

“Then what? Simply angel?”

Crowley cringed. “No. Don’t. I’m...” He raised his eyebrows. “Aziraphale.”

Enjolras looked confused, but nodded. “Aziraphale,” he repeated. Crowley nodded.

“Yeah. Well, I should get going. Heavenly things to do, and all that.” He started walking off. “No one is to know of this, right? Tell that to your amis.” He started walking faster, but then paused. One more thing couldn’t hurt, could it? “And Enjolras?” he called back. Enjolras looked up.

“Yes?” he responded, looking almost excited. Crowley took a moment to think of the right words, before speaking.

“The wine fellow. In green.”

“Grantaire?”

“Yeah. I think you should talk to him more.” Crowley smiled lightly, seeing the confused-but-flushed look on Enjolras’ face. “Just a thought.” He turned back around and walked off.

~~~

“Crowley.”

They were sitting in St James Park, not looking at each other. “Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated in the same tone.

“There’s something I really must ask you,” the angel said. Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Fine, but make it quick. I only woke up to go to the loo, I’ve been awake far too long already.”

The angel sighed next to him. “Did you hear what happened in Paris?”

Crowley shifted slightly. “Which part?”

“One of the barricades stood. Every single student survived. And word Upstairs is that an angel saved them.”

Crowley swallowed, glancing at Aziraphale. “Word Upsss...Upstairs?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes. Prayers from the survivors say that an angel called Aziraphale saved the rebels from the barricade.”

Crowley made a noise. “Well, good job, then. Congratulations. Is that what I’m sss...supposed to say?”

Aziraphale tilted his head to the side slightly, looking at Crowley. “I didn’t do it.”

“Oh.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, my dear boy?”

Crowley put a hand on his chest. “Me? Angel, you’ve said a few ridiculous things before, but this is really…” He didn’t finish. There was a moment of silence.

“You did save those children from the Great Flood,” Aziraphale said. Crowley hissed.

“Sssshut up, those were children. I swear to Satan that I had nothing to do with this...French thing.” He stood up. “I’m going back to sleep.”

~~~

Aziraphale watched as Crowley stormed off, leaving him alone. He turned his head forward to look at the duck-pond, a small smile on his face. Perhaps some demons weren’t all that bad, he thought. Perhaps.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! have a lovely night/day.


End file.
